Love and a Molotov Cocktail
by stillnotanotherone
Summary: "Will I write? Well, once in a while. I'll send my love and a molotov cocktail." RusLiet. Drabbles and one shots. Nyo!Liet.
1. A Healthy Dose of Pain

" _A choice is facing you, a healthy dose of pain."_

 _~Belle and Sebastian_

There were words for people like her, words that were generally reserved for war time, words that carried the worst possible connotations. _Collaborator. Traitor._

"So this...this is what your people died for?" Eduard's voice had been cold, contemptuous. He hadn't said it but the sentiment was obvious from his tone. _You disgust me._

"You live here too! You do his paperwork and call him sir, just like the rest of us!" She'd snapped back hotly, glaring at her brother. "You take orders like everyone else, so get off your moral high horse!"

"I'm not the one who jumped into bed with him!" He'd hissed back, teeth gritted. "I might be here but it doesn't mean I have to _enjoy_ it, the way you do! I've seen the way his hands are all over you, the way you blush like a schoolgirl when he looks at you. You think nobody notices it when you come back and your hair is a mess and your buttons are half undone?"

"And what...? You'd rather I told him to fuck off? Make him angry? Let him take out his frustrations on you or Raivis...?"

"Don't you dare!" Eduard cut her off icily. "Don't you dare pretend like this is some noble act of self sacrifice! You might make a good show of pretending to be a martyr for the rest of the world, but you _like_ it. You get off on it. It's obvious." He'd turned his head away angrily, refusing to meet her gaze.

Their argument had eaten away at her all day. Perhaps that had been why she'd carelessly knocked over Ivan's favourite vase. Perhaps that had been why she'd been so lax about sweeping up the shards properly, why she'd carelessly left the evidence there for him to find. Yes, that was it. She'd been distracted by the argument. Nothing more.

As the Baltic trio sat in tense silence that evening at the kitchen table, eating supper, the door opened and a soft, sing song voice came from the doorway. Heavy boots fell on the floor and she bit her lip, not looking up as a large hand closed around her arm.

"Oh Toris..." the tall, violet eyed man hauled her to her feet, mock disappointment on his face as he shook his head. "Come with me. We need to have a discussion about your clumsiness."

Her heartbeat quickened as she was half dragged out of the room and she tried to ignore the small, confusing thrill of anticipation in the pit of her stomach. As Russia gripped her hard enough to leave a bruise, no doubt the first of many for the evening, she bit back the tiny moan of pain in the back of her throat, the sound laced with something else, something that was almost indecent.

Looking back, she caught the frightened concern on Ravis' face, the pointed look of disgust from Eduard. But he was wrong. She didn't _crave_ this.

Did she?


	2. American English

" _Then you contract the American dream,_

 _You never looked up once."_

 _~ Idlewild, "American English"_

 _ **1920**_

Toris hummed to herself as she washed the dishes, looking out of the window at the blue skies. Although the house was quiet, in the back of her mind she fancied that she could still hear the hum of New York City, the noise and the vibrancy of it all, wild and unrestrained, everything just a little too loud and a little too bright. America was like that...both the place and the man. Enthusiastic, ebullient...dizzyingly so.

She wondered if she'd ever be able to do that...to laugh with abandon or speak her mind the way he did. She wondered if she'd ever be able to walk into a dance hall and feel at home, or dress like some of those bright, dazzling women she'd seen in the streets, arm in arm, chattering gaily. Probably not, she decided, looking down at her own clothes, strange and worn and androgynous. Her hair plain and unfashionable, long and tightly braided. So thin that her form barely looked female. No...best to watch from the sidelines, to take in all of that wonder quietly, as the outsider that she would always be.

She'd been an outsider too, in Russia. But the customs weren't a million miles from her own, not by comparison, and she spoke the language with barely an accent, whereas English felt heavy and thick on her tongue. She rolled her r's too much, the vowels sounded elongated and strange and the words didn't come easily, her face turning red with embarrassment as she struggled with the pronunciation. She was getting better.

Alfred didn't seem to mind at all, though. He had no patience for learning other languages and seemed slightly in awe of anyone who had the determination to do so. He'd brushed aside her apologies with a laugh and an easy wave of his hand. He had no designs to force his culture on her, reminding her often that she was a free and independent nation, that she was there for paid work, not as a captive. She was free to leave any time, and he made sure that she knew it. She suspected that he'd been doing her a favour out of kindness when he'd allowed her to come in the first place.

That was the wonderful thing about this place. People could come here and be whatever they wanted to be. There was a giddy promise in the air, a child-like optimism, a sincerely held patriotism borne out of individualism, rather than collectivism. It was intoxicating.

Independence felt tentative, like gossamer threads and snow that would melt in the palm of her hand. She couldn't shake the feeling that, sooner or later, she'd have to go back to Ivan and even a friend as powerful as Alfred wouldn't be able to stop that, not really. But she liked to pretend sometimes. Pretend and hope that this was her life now and that when she left, she'd go back home stronger and bring all the best aspects of America with her. That she'd grow strong and vibrant again. This was exactly what she _needed_.

"I'm gonna be late..!" Alfred burst into the room suddenly with a clatter, his shirt half unbuttoned and his hair sticking up at wild angles.

She observed him with a calm smile and gestured to the table. "I've already made breakfast. You just have to get dressed."

He made a noise that she supposed was a thank you, as he crammed a pastry into his mouth and vanished again. She shrugged and hummed a little to herself as she carried on with the washing up.

"I don't know how you can put up with this..."

Toris looked up with a start. She hadn't expected to see Arthur standing in the doorway, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, his hair slightly rumpled. He walked to the table and grabbed a slice of toast, wrinkling his nose at the coffee on offer. It was none of her business what the two of them got up to, or why he'd been spending the night so often, but she couldn't help but smile a little. They were so badly matched that it almost made them perfect together. Ever the soul of discretion, she ignored the fact that Arthur's shirt was untucked and the fact that his union jack boxer shorts were visible through his open fly and the early blossom of a bruise on his collarbone. There was a word for that sort of mark, in English, that she couldn't quite remember.

"I love it here," she said, her eyes shining with quiet sincerity. With a conspiratorial smile, she pulled out the teapot and a small tin of teabags that Alfred would never admit to owning. "Tea? The kettle's just boiled."

Arthur arched one of his wild eyebrows. "Thank you. Yes." As she made the tea, he ate in silence, before inhaling sharply. "He's not here, you know. You can be honest."

She poured the tea. "When you've lived with Feliks...and then Ivan..." She shrugged. "Trust me, this is a good life."

"You don't miss him, then?"

"Feliks?" Toris was being deliberately evasive. "Sometimes. He's exhausting, you know. And irresponsible. But his heart's in the right place."

"No. Your ex." Arthur replied bluntly. "Or at least, that's what he's calling himself. I got the impression that he wasn't too happy with me for finding you this...ah...arrangement. Of course, who can tell, really? He's an odd fellow."

"Yes." She nodded, her face neutral. "He is."

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "You didn't answer my question."

"No," she agreed quietly. "I didn't."


	3. She Promised Me Three Wishes

" _She promised me three wishes._

 _My only wish is, she should remain here."_

 _~ Hefner_

Lately, it wasn't uncommon for them to go days, weeks even, without seeing one another. They were both busy in their own ways. She was often inundated with chores and he was frequently off running errands for his bosses. She didn't want to think about what some of those errands might be, but she'd washed the blood out of his clothes often enough to surmise. During the times he was away, she wasn't privy to his schedule but she always kept a warm kettle by the hearth, just in case.

Sometimes he'd come through the door without saying a word. He'd kick off his snow covered boots in the hall and stride into the sitting room, slumping down in a battered armchair and staring at the fire. She'd wordlessly bring him tea and set it on the table beside him, stoking the fire and leaving him to his thoughts.

Other times, he'd grab her the moment he stepped inside, pushing her up against the wall, his hands on her hips as she wrapped her legs around his waist. He'd kiss her until her lips were bruised and bloodied, tearing at the buttons of her shirt with numb, frostbitten fingers. Pulling her into the drawing room, he'd throw her down by the fire, burying himself inside her as though she was the only source of warmth left in the world. Afterwards, he'd lie there with his weight pushing down on her, his heart hammering against hers as he wept softly into her neck and she stroked his bright flaxen hair.

Other times, he'd find fault with some minor aspect of the house. A carelessly washed cup, a stain on the rug. Whether the faults were real or not didn't matter. Those were the days they would end up in the basement, when she would scream and beg for him until she bled, until he felt as though he'd taken back whatever control he'd lost elsewhere. He'd bathe her afterwards, the water turning pink as he cleaned her wounds, murmuring soft words of encouragement and wrapping her in a towel. She stayed with him in his bed those nights, curled up in his arms, feeling his chest rise and fall as he slept peacefully, violet burning behind his closed lids while winter raged outside. The next day he would watch her work, stiff backed and pale, and he would catch her by the arm to kiss the rope burns on her wrists, crestfallen and apologetic. She would smile for him then, wordless reassurance that this really was ok and he would look at her with wonder, as though he could hardly believe that she existed.

"I think you're a witch," he'd told her once. It had been summer then and they'd lain in the long grass of the garden, watching the sun set. Her dress was torn and hitched around her waist and his boots were unlaced, his trousers around his knees. His hair blazed orange in the dying light while hers fell loose in a dark waterfall around her half bared shoulders.

She plucked a dandelion stem and ran it over the tip of his nose, a mock-serious expression on her face. "Maybe I am."

"Then that means I'm not responsible for my actions." He pushed her back against the grass, capturing her mouth with a kiss.

She supposed neither of them were, not really.


	4. Every Day I Love You Less and Less

" _Oh yes, I'm stressed._

 _I'm sorry, I digressed."_

 _~ Kaiser Chiefs_

This time, it was different. It felt different. Toris wore her independence about her as though it were a suit of armour, flaunting her autonomy. In the past, she'd been almost apologetic about it, quiet and unassuming, knowing that it could be snatched from her at any moment. With that knowledge had come an underlying fear that her behaviour during those short lived periods might come back to haunt her at Ivan's hands. But not now.

Now, it was cast iron. She would never go back. She was healing, rebuilding. The first few months, she'd shut herself away, locked herself at home and stared at the walls and refused to answer the door. Then, gradually, she'd started going for walks. She plugged the telephone back in. At his insistence, she'd spent a good deal of time at Alfred's house. She'd been quiet and cautious at first, on her guard for the first sign of pity that she couldn't bear to see on his face, but soon they'd been watching movies and stuffing their faces with popcorn and laughing riotously and talking about anything and nothing. She'd reconnected with Feliks, not as a reluctant housemate any more but just as friends. He was nothing if not great for a night out, even if he was an annoyingly better dancer than she was and looked far better in a dress. She'd built bridges with her brothers; awkward, stilted dinners at first, painfully polite conversation and then, gradually and tentatively, the warmth had crept back in.

Once she'd stopped shutting herself away, she found that she couldn't stop reaching out. She looked after Ludwig's dogs for him, even shot back some banter with Gilbert. Now that she had her freedom, their old rivalry made him seem more like an annoying little brother than a painful reminder of the power she'd lost. She'd gone to one of Roderich's impromptu piano concerts at his home by the Danube, she'd let Feliciano cook for her in his Milan apartment. She'd sat in a pub near London Bridge station with Arthur and got drunk for the first time in 40 years. Then she'd gone to Glasgow and realised that Alasdair's idea of drinking was on another level entirely from his brother's and she'd found herself being sick in a gutter on Sauchiehall Street at 3am while the Scot held back her hair with one hand and happily ate deep fried pizza with the other. She'd awkwardly craned her neck behind a pack of tourists to see the Mona Lisa with Francis, while Kiko snapped endless photographs. She'd even picked up the phone and reached out to the beautiful, terrifying Natalya, who had promptly told her to get lost (but, Toris felt, in a slightly less hostile manner than usual, which was progress) and to Katya, who had told her warmly to come any time (although she hadn't quite felt ready yet).

She'd done all of those things, and more, because she could. Because she wanted them to know her for her, and not for what had been done to her. Because the concept of having uninhibited friendships was suddenly open to her and she wanted to fill up all those years of loneliness, all those years when there was only _him_ , with something sweet and warm and tangible.

But she'd also changed the channel with a little too much force when an old Cold War movie had come on TV at Alfred's. She'd snapped at Feliks when he'd tried to persuade her to try on a backless dress. She'd slammed the oven door with too much force and shattered the glass when Raivis had lapsed into Russian without thinking. She'd frozen for a moment in fear when she saw the Soviet war memorial near the Tiergarten in Berlin, Ludwig taking her by the arm and steering her awkwardly towards a nearby ice cream van, both of them embarrassed, her struggling for breath and him pretending politely not to notice. She'd left the room when Roderich had begun to play Rachmaninov and she'd stared in blank horror at Feliciano when he'd wondered aloud if Ivan was so big because he ate too much pasta. She'd had to go to the toilets to calm herself down when someone smashed at glass at the pub and it had set off a distant memory of something she'd have preferred to forget. She'd sobbed for a moment on Alasdair's shoulder after being sick, slurring her words while he cheerfully reminded her that she was "better off without that cunt." She'd panicked momentarily at the crowds in the Louvre pressing against her and it had taken half a bottle of vodka before she'd picked up the phone with trembling hands to call Natalya and Katya and force a polite cheerfulness into her voice.

She'd done all of those things and more, because she couldn't not. Not yet.

It was a process. A process which was gradually a little easier every day.

And the last part, the thing she'd been avoiding with a quiet, sick dread, was a world meeting. The last one she'd attended, she'd trailed behind Ivan, carrying his paperwork, eyes downcast as she tried to ignore the pitying looks and the fact that nobody (except Alfred, God love him) actually dared to speak to her directly. It had been awful. Whatever strange comfort she might have sought in their mutually destructive understanding behind closed doors was one thing but such public displays of her loss of autonomy were nothing short of humiliating.

She never wanted to be in the same room as him again.

And yet here she was. She kept her chin resolutely high, grateful for Feliks slipping an affectionate arm through hers and launching into a long, involved (but objectively funny) story about a mix up in a café. She found herself smiling and nodding, glad that his stream of chatter didn't require too much input. She was grateful, even, for the chaos which erupted as nations began to shout over one another, anything which prevented any attention from being directed towards her. Alfred, Arthur and Francis were fighting about something and Yao was offering food. Antonio was saying something quietly to Ivan and she looked away sharply, picking at her nails.

"...I want to see Lithuania get in trouble and come crying to me for help..." She looked up at that soft voice, at the sound of her name on those lips. She met Ivan's gaze before she could stop herself.

The room fell uncomfortably silent for a moment. Even Alfred was quiet.

Her palms were sweating and she could feel her skin prickling, the blood rushing in her ears like the sound of the ocean. There was a tight feeling in her chest, white hot and burning. Ivan was smiling at her, that deceptively docile, child like expression on his face.

Without even realising what she was doing, she was out of her seat and had closed the short distance between them in a few strides. The next few moments were a blur. She was aware of her clenched fist, of her nails digging into the palm of her hand. She was aware of a cracking sound and a sharp pain jolting up her wrist as her fist made contact with his face. She blinked as he went crashing backwards into his seat, the chair legs snapping under his weight as he landed sprawling onto the floor.

The room was silent, save for the rasping sound of her own breathing and a muted groan from the floor.

"Awesome...!" Gilbert's delighted voice cut through the stunned silence. "She broke his fucking jaw!"

She allowed Feliks to lead her by the arm, stumbling, out of the room. Behind her, the Prussian could be heard crowing loudly as the room descended once more into a rabble. "I TOLD you guys...Liet was a real psycho back in the day..."

Outside, she leaned head head back against the cool whitewashed wall and brushed her hair out of her eyes, exhaling as though a weight had been lifted from her chest.

"Better?" Her small blonde companion asked cautiously.

"Better," she breathed. "Better."


	5. Running Girl

" _And her heart is emptier than light._

 _And her soul is married to the stars._

 _She doesn't know why that she runs._

 _But she runs."_

 _~Ooberman_

It doesn't matter what time of year it is. It doesn't matter if the sun is already up and the ground is dry and barren or if the snow covered ground is drenched in pitch black. It doesn't matter if there is thunder and lightning and rain crashing down in sheets, turning the ground into a swamp. It doesn't matter if the wind is screaming or if the air is so humid that it claws at his throat and threatens to choke him.

She runs.

At five o clock every morning, without fail, she sets out for the paddock and begins to sprint. Some days she is flying, her long brown braid trailing behind her like a banner. Some days she is limping, ashen faced with slow, deliberate steps. Some days, if he squints hard enough, he can see the faint lines of fresh blood on her back, seeping slowly through the once-white, now-grey fabric of her ragged t shirt.

He has watched her run, her cheeks tinged with grey and her brow furrowed as she struggles to draw in air with what must surely have been cracked ribs. He has watched her collapse to her knees, vomit up clear bile and pick herself up to finish the distance. He has watched her spread her arms wide and sprint, face upturned towards the dawn, the wind in her hair as she flies around her makeshift track.

He has never mentioned this to her. As surely as she rises before the house wakes, he will pull himself out of bed and stand at his bedroom window, watching her form in the distance. It is an intensely private moment, one which she believes to be hers alone. He feels guilty sometimes, like a voyeur.

He supposes that she never mentioned this strange morning ritual of hers to him for fear that it might be taken away. He has taken many things from her over the years. Her freedom, her language, her autonomy. Often her dignity. He knows that she guards this precious pocket of time in each day jealously. That no matter how late he keeps her up (and he has experimented with this) she will be on that field without fail every day, even if he can see her struggling to keep her eyes open later in the day. If she has spent the night in his room, she will creep out, run and return before he thinks he has awoken. He will pretend to be asleep when she comes back, but as surely as she runs, he will always watch.

There have only been a handful of times when she has not been there. And each time, it has been because of him. Each time it has been a sign that all is not well, that something has snapped, gone too far.

The sight of her in that field is his barometer. It doesn't matter if she is flying or limping, laughing or stumbling, joyful or pained. As long as she is there, all is as it should be. Everything is all right. The jigsaw puzzle pieces of the world will fall, somehow, into their rightful places.

Today he rises at five minutes to five. He drags himself from his bed, rubbing his sleep encrusted eyes and stands at the window. He waits.

At one minute to five, he can almost believe that any moment now, he will see her climb the fence to the paddock.

But today, she is not there.

Because she has already run. And she did not stop at the boundaries of the fence. She did not stop at the boundaries of his land, or of the forests that lay beyond. She ran and ran until she was nothing but a small spot in the distance. He watched, unblinking, as she disappeared, swallowed up in the trees on the horizon.

He wonders if, somewhere far away, she is running right now. He wonders if her little house, overgrown with weeds and cold and dusty from years of neglect, has a place where she will make a track and propel herself around it every day.

He wonders, even, if she will need to run any more.

He wonders if she only ran because of him.

At half past five, he closes the window, takes a long gulp from the bottle by his bed and crawls back under the covers. He closes his red rimmed eyes and pretends that soon, he will hear the creak of the door, her ragged breathing as she stumbles inside to wash her face and start the kettle boiling on the hob.

He should shower. He should shave. He should sober up.

But none of those things will happen today.

The jigsaw pieces of the world are in a broken jumble at his feet and he does not have the energy today to put them into order.


End file.
